Mine

The 2300 Arena is a common location for Kurtis to record his regular messages and this week seems to be no different. Unwilling to invite viewers into his carefully guarded personal world and without a private gym readily available, it’s become a regular occurrence for him to wander the empty building days before a show.

“Sometimes the most straight-forward questions have the most complex answers. When people asked why I attempted to cripple my own brother, I couldn’t give an answer that they would accept unless they’d walked a mile in my shoes. I did my best to explain my point of view when Savannah required us to answer questions about love, hate, and all of the intangible concepts that make up our wretched lives, despite knowing that someone as shallow as her could never truly grasp my way of thinking. Now Mark Hunter wants to know why he should build the entire Project Underground brand around someone like me. For once, the answer is very simple. He shouldn’t.”

Avoiding the locker rooms and general seating, Kurtis has taken to the highest reaches of the arena, leaning over a catwalk that overlooks the ring like a bird of prey scouting for its next meal.

“It takes a certain kind of person to become the face of a wrestling brand. Maybe they have a way of captivating an audience every time they lift a microphone to their lips. They might have the kind of physique that would make a legend of Greek myth green with envy. Perhaps they compete with a graceful strength between the ropes, possessing the kind of repertoire that makes the fans rise to their feet just so they can catch a glimpse of their next move. In a promoter’s perfect world, the face of their brand has not just one of those things but all of them combined. These are things that men like Havoc and Arata Asakura can claim to have, and to be perfectly frank, I have none of them.”

A lit cigarette dangles from his lips as he speaks, until he reaches up to snatch it between his fingers. A flick of his finger sends ashes floating downward, but Kurtis cannot be bothered to follow their path with his eyes, just as refuses to look at the camera when speaking.

“Not only do I not possess these starlike qualities, but I have no desire in learning them. To be successful, both in dollars earned and fans made, a brand needs to have someone they can put on their posters with confidence. They need to know that the name they put on the marquee will sell tickets and show up to deliver when the opening bell rings. My scowling face and scarred body might appeal to some, but I refuse to make any guarantees when it comes to fulfilling my obligations. Given the choice between showing up for a main event or driving across the country for a guaranteed opportunity at maiming someone like Indy Darling, Tara Fenix, or even Mark Hunter himself, you can be damn sure I won’t be there when the bell rings.”

With his elbows resting on the catwalk railing, he raises the cigarette back to his lips for a deep drag before continuing.

“Clearly, I’m no role model, even if that concept is a bit passe where this business is concerned. I’d rather break fingers than shake hands, and I wouldn’t even kiss a baby if that bastard was my own. No amount of money, no amount of fame, no amount of weight put behind me by this company’s merchandise machine will ever change that. These are just a few of the reasons why Mark Hunter shouldn’t even consider building Project Underground around someone like me. He should instead look for someone who will play the political game, someone who will hide their true nature to get ahead. He should build this brand around someone a lot more like Mark himself.”

Kurtis doesn’t smile when he makes his point, uninterested in delivering the wink and nod that might typically accompany that kind of statement.

“Mark did a masterful job of making people think he was anything more than a greedy, self-obsessed sycophant. He successfully hid his true nature and had the people eating out of the palm of his hand. With every false friendship he made, his influence grew. When my brother and his idiotic partners needed a credible attorney, they turned to Mark. After all, he had the best interests of Project: Honor in mind, didn’t he? Now he finds himself with his very own brand so that he can play puppet master along with men who are his mental equals. Men like Petey and Burque.”

There is still no smirk despite the obvious dig at the mental competency of Project: Honor management.

“I’d like to claim that I alone was wise to Mark’s true nature, that I wasn’t fooled by his million-dollar smile or his hollow promises, but that’s not true at all. Like others, I assumed that real life had made him soft, that he was just another gentle lamb in this company’s flock of sheep. Instead, he was a wolf hiding amongst them, or at least that’s what he’d like us to believe. Whether he sets his sights on a fan-favorite or a dastardly heel, Mark Hunter is still a liar and a fraud. He’s still the kind of person who hides his intentions behind a disingenuous smile. That makes him more of a snake than a wolf, and being a skilled liar is something I simply refuse to be. Love me or hate me, I really don’t care. Either way, you know I’m telling you the way it is. If you really want to be a wolf, Mark, you should try running with the pack.”

He takes another drag from his cigarette and holds it for a moment, his stare focused on some faraway thing or place that remains unrevealed to the viewer.

“We’d all be better off if Mark put his power and influence behind anyone other than me. Put those things behind a student of the sport like Nathan O’Connor or someone with a natural charisma like Joseph Blaze. Better yet, put them behind a natural athlete like Christopher Graves or someone with movie star looks like Virgil Barrick. Then again, he could always go with the most physically intimidating man on his roster and stand solidly behind my opponent for this week. Meatball has a unique look, a bad attitude, and an impressive record, all things that would make a promotor salivate when looking for their next big star. He even talks like the villain of a cheap movie even though he wouldn’t know evil if it slithered up and bit him on the leg. No doubt, he fits the deceptive presentation Mark will be going for.”

Kurtis allows himself a heavy sigh as the last wisps of smoke trail from his nostrils.

“All of those men have a quality that I neither have nor do I desire. They all have something in common with Mark himself. Not only that, but they probably want the opportunity Mark is offering. Some of them might even kill for it. If I wanted it, I’d simply do what I’ve already been doing for the past few months. I would take it whether management wanted me to or not.”

Finally, he slowly turns his head so that his ice-blue eyes meet the camera’s lens.

“This is supposed to be a place for tomorrow’s stars to hone their craft, to earn the opportunity to compete for Fallout or Proving Ground. Yet it may be our new General Manager who has the most to learn. While others jump through Mark’s hoops, I’ll keep my feet planted firmly on the ground. While they yap away like dogs who have been promised a treat, I’ll remain quiet in my corner of the room. If he’s even considering screwing me over or making my life miserable to stay true to the farcical friendship he has with my brother, Mark should really pay attention to what I’ve already done to my physically superior opponents like Jupiter and Christopher Graves. He should pay attention to what I’m going to do to Meatball later this week.”

He takes one final drag from his coffin nail before flinging it over the edge of the catwalk, unconcerned with where it may land. As he exhales, he turns away from the camera once again, resting his upper body on the railing with both arms.

“And by all means, Mark, if you think you have me in the palm of your hand, you should remember how it felt when I held your very well-being within mine. Remember that moment. Remember the anticipation you had, waiting for me to turn your streak of concussions into permanent brain damage. Look at the expression on Meatball’s face when he knows the end is near, and remember that you had that very same, stupid look on your own smug face. Remember what you already know, what Meatball will soon find out, that I am not a man to be fucked with.”

The silent man behind the camera, most likely Kurtis’ only known confidant, Gideon Marx, adds a slow fade to the picture while keeping the camera focused on its target.

“Why should Mark trust me with the future of Project Underground? He shouldn’t. Why should he build all of it around me? He can’t.”

Until finally, there is nothing left to see but the void of a black screen as Kurtis’ final message can be heard.

“Because whether you like it or not, it already is.”